Placing a piece of money in Morgan's hands, he hurried out of the churchyard. ‘Because you are a bête, and a pig, and imbecile. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters.
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